The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (7 page)

There's no blood.

But her clothes and bedding are soaked. A searing ache tears through her stomach as she gathers the blankets to dry near the fire. Just as the pain is almost over, Maggie clenches her fists and then drops them to her side.

‘Why is this happening to me now?' Maggie groans. ‘God no, not now while I'm all alone,' she curses out loud. Sweat covers her entire forehead and she's near bitten through her lip. Damp earth embeds between her toes as she staggers through the cottage. As she pushes open the door she catches her neighbour's eye.

‘Mrs Johnston, can you fetch the midwife? I think I'm having the bairn.'

The neighbour's wizened face wrinkles with concern. ‘Where's your man? He should be with you.'

‘He's at sea. Can you send word?'

‘Of course, lassie, I'll be with you in a moment. Now get yourself inside and cross your legs.' She cackles.

Maggie staggers inside. She's cold now, so cold her teeth have started to chatter. She wraps a blanket around her and suddenly feels nauseous, and so she bends over her knees and vomits onto the floor. When the retching stops, Maggie rolls on her side, and in this odd position her thoughts turn to her mother, and the tears begin to fall. ‘Please somebody come now,' she whimpers like an injured animal. ‘Oh why won't someone come?'

After a while the sound of footsteps and whistling comes from outside. Maggie rolls onto her swollen stomach and pushes on her knees, her eyes constantly watching the door. In a flash, Isobel bursts through the entrance carrying her creel.

‘Maggie, I came at once. How are you, lassie? I got here as fast as I could, honest I did. Where's Patrick, is he at sea?'

‘Aye.'

‘As soon as the saltwife told me, I ran here as fast as I could.'

‘But I asked her to fetch a midwife.' Maggie whines, grimacing as a pain passes.

‘Don't fret, the midwife's on her way. Are the pains coming fast?'

‘Aye, they started this morning, and to be honest I thought I'd wet the bed and that's when they started.'

Isobel nods. ‘Your waters have broken. I've seen it before; my mother's had plenty of bairns. Ah, here's the midwife.'

Maggie almost cries out with relief. The pain is more than she can bear now and the sight of this no-nonsense woman with a kind face is a sight for sore eyes.

‘Now then, let's see what have we here,' says the midwife, rolling up her sleeves. A timid lassie peers over her shoulder, carrying a linen bag.

‘My name's Jean Ramsay and the lassie behind me is my niece, Betty. She's here to see how things are done if that's all right with you. Your name's Maggie, isn't it?'

Maggie nods and gestures to Isobel. ‘That's...'

‘I know who she is, used to be a fishwife myself many a year ago. I knew Isobel when she was this big.' The midwife places one hand waist height before adding, ‘And what a little beggar she was! Now then, I need you to loosen your garments for me. Lift up your skirts and let me take a wee look. You're doing a grand job, lassie, now don't be getting upset, Auntie Jean's here now to sort all this out. Is this your first? You're awful young.' She coats her hand with duck fat for lubricant and fletches her fingers, preparing to stretch the neck of the womb.

‘Aye, it's my first. Oh, ouch. It hurts. Don't do that. Please stop.' Maggie tries to slap the midwife's hand away.

‘Hold her still, Betty. ‘

Betty places two firm hands on Maggie's arms and holds her down.

The midwife continues with her examination. ‘Be strong, lassie. I can see the head already so the baby will be born within the hour. You've done most of the work alone.'

The midwife gestures to Betty. ‘Pass us that bag, will you, Betty? And after that fetch us some hot water.'

The midwife grumbles as she rummages within her bag. Each time she pulls out an object she curses and drops something back in. This goes on for a long while, tugging out one thing and then another, until suddenly she finds what she wants. She moves quickly and with a sense of urgency. ‘Where's your linen?' She asks.

‘In the chest over there. My mother put all of it together for me before she died.' Maggie's face contorts and her teeth grind together as she fights one last pain. And then suddenly she flops backward and everything goes black.

A dull buzzing noise rings within her ears. When she opens her eyes, a dark velvety blackness fills the room. Occasionally, the firelight glows to reveal blurred, distorted shapes of women busy at work. Above the incessant chatter, she can make out the midwife barking out orders.

‘Now Betty, we must wait for the afterbirth. Keep kneading her stomach like a baker kneads bread. And after that give her an herbal wash and make a poultice, the way I showed you. It will slow the blood flow.'

‘Where's my baby?' Maggie croaks. Her mouth feels like sand.

‘She's here, lass. Look at that face and those eyes. What a bonny wee girl.'

‘I feel ill. I need water,' Maggie murmurs, covering her mouth in a vain bid to stop retching.

‘Drink this ale,' Jean places a wooden cup to Maggie's lips, then promptly takes it away.

‘Gather your strength together, lass. The baby needs you to be strong.' She gives Maggie one more drink from the cup before placing the baby in her arms. ‘That's it, lass. Support the child's head; let it nuzzle into your breasts.'

Maggie gazes down on the wrinkled pink flesh covered in slime; she holds it clumsily in one arm. It feels completely unnatural, and so she fidgets and adjusts it with shaky arms, almost dropping it in the process.

‘Isobel? Could you take the child? I don't feel well.'

***

For the most part, Isobel's delighted to take the child off Maggie's hands. The baby's covered in blood and could do with a wipe anyway. But the way Maggie turned away from it; Isobel can't help but wonder if that's normal, so once Maggie's asleep, Isobel seeks out the midwife.

‘What's the matter with her, Jean? She looks right through it like she doesn't want it. And she's such a bonny baby with the darkest eyes. The poor wee thing's hungry, see how she's sucking on my little finger. She should have her on the breast now.'

The midwife crinkles her eyes together. ‘Don't be troubled so, Isobel. Maggie's just worn-out. You'd be surprised how many women don't want to hold their babies after a birth, and not because their exhausted mind. It's like all those days and months of carrying the child have gone by and, well what can I say? It's just too much for them.'

Isobel sighs. ‘So she'll be all right when she wakes then?'

‘Aye, and she can feed the child then,' nods the midwife, crossing her arms.

A smile lights up Isobel's face as she stuffs a coin in the midwife's hand. ‘Thank you, Jean. You've been grand… and Betty.'

‘It's nothing, Isobel, all in a day's labour and a damn sight easier than carrying creels full of herring, I can tell you. Now then, remember to get her to put the baby on her breast when she wakes. And tell her not to feed it spirits to prevent it crying. I don't agree with that.
A child needs the breast and nothing else.'

‘Aye, I'll tell her.' But Isobel's mouth gapes open. ‘Surely a bit of strong stuff on a babe's tongue won't do any harm. Sometimes it's the only way to get them off to sleep. My mother fed all of us on a sugary pap laced with alcohol.'

The midwife clucks her tongue and points out a bony finger. ‘Aye and how many of your brothers and sisters lived past the age of two, Isobel? How many?'

‘Two.'

‘So your mother lost how many weans? Speak up, child.'

‘Me mam lost four babies. But there's nothing unusual about that. It was God's will.'

‘God's will? More like the stuff she poured down their poor wee throats. Don't tell her I said that, mind. Ignore me and my big mouth. No spirits for the baby, have I made myself clear?' The midwife waits for an answer with crossed arms.

‘Aye, no spirits for the baby.' Isobel nods her head.

‘Grand. Now come on, Betty. It's time to go, our job's done here. The dry nurse can take care of the lying-in, until the up-sitting and churching that is.'

‘Up what?' Betty frowns.

‘Oh never mind.'

***

‘Isobel, where are you?'

‘Wait there. I won't be a moment, Maggie.' Isobel picks up the baby. ‘Here, put it to the breast.'

‘Must I?'

‘Well if you don't, it will starve,' Isobel tuts.

Maggie holds out her arms for the child. It feels odd and awkward as Isobel places her in her hands. She's unsure of whether to hold it to the left or right and so she tries both ways, finally resting its head in the crook of her left arm. Her skin crawls as Isobel guides it to her breast.

The child hiccups and jerks in her embrace, as though something disturbs her sleep. Maggie gazes at her with drowsy eyes.
Already she prefers it asleep, silent and undemanding. Suddenly, a hoarse cough startles Maggie, causing her to clinch the babe tight in her arms.

‘Oh, it is you, Patrick. Where have you been? I was frightened to death.'

‘At sea. Where else? I got here as soon as I could. The midwife got here in time then?'

‘Aye, but the birth – oh Patrick, I never want to go through that again.'

Patrick shakes his head. ‘Was it painful, lass?

Maggie nods and slumps her head back. ‘Do you want to hold her?'

‘Aye. It's a girl child then? What have you called her?'

‘I haven't called her anything.'

‘Why not?' He walks the length of the room and sinks to his knees beside her.

‘I was waiting for you, silly beggar.'

He kisses her forehead. ‘We'll call her Anna, in remembrance of your mother.'

She lifts her head to find his lips. He tastes of the sea.

‘Anna Spence it is then,' she agrees.

They christen her on 29 July 1716 at St Michaels Kirk.

***

Motherhood does not come naturally to Maggie. Why didn't anyone warn her about the trouble bairns bring? And how many more sleepless nights must she endure? The incessant crying grates on her nerves now and, to make matters worse, the child seems to be permanently on the breast like a huge sucking parasite.

A rapping noise from the door startles her. Maggie's not really in the mood for visitors but nevertheless she crosses the room with weary legs to answer the door. It's the midwife, Jean Ramsay, waiting to be invited in. She opens the door and ushers her inside, offering her a chair near the fire.

‘How's the child?' asks Jean, glancing at the baby and giving the cottage a once over.

‘She's feeding well that's for sure and she's a healthy pair of lungs on her.'

‘And you?'

‘Grand,' Maggie tells a falsehood.

Jean scrutinises her with penetrating eyes. ‘Hmm, you look a bit sickly to me. Have you taken the child outside yet?'

Maggie shakes her head and shudders; the thought of going out with the babe irks her, and to be honest she has neither the energy nor the desire to venture out-of-doors. ‘No, I thought I'd leave going out for now.'

‘Nonsense. The child needs fresh air, and by the look of it so do you. You can't stay within these four walls forever you know, you'll be off to Edinburgh soon with the other fishwives to sell your fish. And look at the state of this place. I've seen cleaner pigsties. Do you want me to help you give the place a wee clean?'

Maggie lowers her head. ‘Aw, no need, Jean. I'll have this place spick and span soon; it's just I've been so weary and Widow Arrock said she'd come by to lend me a hand after kirk on Sunday.'

‘All right then. I'll be off now, but get yourself out in the fresh air, do you hear me? You need to get some colour back into those cheeks.'

***

The rush is on. Market day at Fisherrow and the fishwives labour hard to sort and gut their fish. Agnes Lecke toils slowly, in her typical precise manner. She sits apart from the other fishwives, happy in her own company, sometimes chattering to herself. Wispy fair hair spills from her cap as she leans over her fish, a razor-sharp knife twisting in hand as she guts her fish. She senses the woman and baby before the others. Her nostrils flare and her upper lip rises as she turns away, Agnes can't bear to look at them and her heart aches as though a cold dirk twists beneath her breast.

Agnes sucks in her breath; her eyes narrow as Patrick's baby begins to cry, instinctively she turns to look. She's the image of her father, the man
she
should've married. The taste of sour bile fills her mouth. She swallows it away and proceeds towards the infant, but before she gets there the voices begin.

‘Not now,' she groans. Agnes doesn't want to hear the voices. But they keep talking to her in a jabbering incessant fashion, conjuring up images of death and vengeance, violating her mind. She screws up her eyes into narrow slits hoping they'll go away, but they won't leave her alone. And so, she sways to and fro, humming aloud.

***

The baby cries all the way home. The child was as good as gold at the harbour with the fisher lassies, but as soon as she's alone with her mother she wails and screeches, grating on Maggie's nerves. So Maggie tries singing, rocking, and even pulls funny faces at it, but nothing seems to work. Near the harbour wall, she grinds her teeth together and tries to control a building rage that bubbles inside. How she longs to be free again, to walk barefoot upon the rocks, the sea breeze in her hair.

The midwife calls again at the crack of dawn, carrying a linen bag full of bannocks and a bone teething ring. Anna sits upon the old woman's knee by the hearth, fidgeting and cooing in her strong arms. Maggie observes the woman with curious eyes and notices how the child seems content, not at all like when she holds her. It's as though when the child is with her, it senses her anxiety and discomfort.